


The Space Between the Head and the Heart

by MistressAkira



Series: In Another Life: Vignettes of Time [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff and Angst, For Science!, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied Sexual Content, OTP Feels, Saving Each Other, Vignette, otp, time skip, two asocial losers fall in love+ a cat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-11-18 06:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11285424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressAkira/pseuds/MistressAkira
Summary: They both knew love for the first time in different ways. For Lon'Qu it came in the form of Ke'ri and a broken heart. For Miriel it was the thing she'd never have and she told herself she was fine with that.---It began with loneliness and ended with the possibilities of the human emotion (and time itself) seemingly endless. A series of vignettes showcasing the various firsts of their relationship.





	1. Sore Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new vignette series! I was having so much fun with the one I started for Fates that I decided to go back and do the same with my favorite FE: Awakening couples, and this one was TOP of the list. I just enjoy their interactions so much, and when considering their personalities, they are an odd fit, but a great one (plus Lon’Qu is one of the few fathers that can actually make a viable Laurent rip my poor pretty mage boy).
> 
> From now on though, this vignette series is going to be released in chapter chunks rather than all at once. That also stands for my future Fates vignettes as well~
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy my multitude of feels for these losers. Link to my other vignette series: https://archiveofourown.org/series/517492
> 
> I own a wig (that looks a lot like Miriel's hair actually) that I've neglected to brush for a year and a half. I do not own Fire Emblem.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time she saw him, Miriel wasn't paying attention.
> 
> The first time he saw her, Lon'qu was forced to pay attention.

The first time she saw him, Miriel had several new holes in her cape, and paid more attention to them than him initially. This tournament that the Khans of Ferox devised had been more strenuous on her than she had previously predicted, and as such she had made a few mistakes, leading to the aforementioned rips and the steadfast conclusion that Miriel had much more to learn.

Her breathing was ragged from exertion but her hand was steady as she set about to mending the rips right on the sand covered floor of the arena, the stitching kit Miriel always kept on her for such happenstance at her side. Chrom and his tactician, with Sir Fredrick and Lady Lissa, were speaking with the Khans a bit away and Miriel paid little attention to them, even when Khan Basilio introduced his previous champion.

The man he introduced as Lon’Qu did not fit within any contingency in appearance with other Feroxi Miriel had previously seen, and this provoked her attention; it was not the skin, tanned and scarred from hours of training, nor the nondescript brown hair cut savagely as if by a blade the belied this. It was his eyes- thin, narrow slits in his face that turned up at the corners- that betrayed his nationality. Yet she could not put her finger quite on what it might have been.

She had been scrutinizing his face so intently, Miriel hadn’t noticed she had pricked her finger in the underhanded portion of her basting stitch. _How clumsy_ , she chastised her moment of distraction.

Bandaging the bleeding pad with a small adhesive -also kept on hand for such times- she returned to her mending.

* * *

The first time he saw her was also the first time he held her in his arms. Not that either were intentional nor particularly enjoyed at the time.

Truly, it was not the first time Lon'qu had seen her; glimpsed her around camp a handful of times, nose in a book or high in the air, but never paid much mind to it. Why would he? As a woman, she was of the variety to immediately be avoided. That was all he thought of it.

At least until she walked quite foolishly (with her nose in a book no less) to the brink of a cliff. He hadn’t thought in that moment, only acted, rushing forward and grabbing her by the waist, yanking her back from the sheer drop that awaited. And then he _saw_ her.

Dark eyes the color of a grey Ferox blizzard, red hair as bright as the fire spells she casted and soft as a breeze, a pale smattering of freckles over her neck one would miss unless they were pressed against her skin like he was now. Lon’Qu’s blood hammered through his veins, her heart a stampede against his chest.

He could barely breath. The touch of her made his skin crawl.

He breathed in. And out.

He let her go.

And then he yelled at her.

However the absurd creature wasn’t even paying attention to his outburst, she had one hand pressed her chest and gripping the fabric over her heart and the countenance of one possessed. Lon’Qu tried to reengage her attention but she was lost in a mumbling haze of speculation, the only words he could make out being that of _racing heartbeat_ and _proximity to an unfamiliar person._

The blasted book that had been the cause of it all laid a few steps away, dropped in the haste, split open to a page at such a rough angle the threadbare binding conceded to burst. With one final withering glare in her direction, Lon’Qu scooped up the book and tossed it at her with warning to not let _this_ happen again. His fingers still writhed from her touch; he couldn’t let this happen again.

Stomping away, the last thing he heard was an exasperated sigh and the soft whisper of, _Bah, I’ve lost my focus._

 


	2. Empty Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being around that woman was bad for his health. 
> 
> And then he saw her smile for the first time.

Of course, the instances did not stop. If anything, they got worse.

Seven brushes with death during the following week (in between the brushes during battle as well!), each time worse than the last, each time ending with Lon’Qu swooping in at the last instance, and each time Miriel nodding primly before traipsing off to inevitably finding herself in such a situation requiring Lon’Qu’s help yet again.

Causing Lon’Qu’s skin to revolt every time it touched hers, each time, yet again.

And though a small part of him leapt in fear each time he found her in the line of danger, frustration was crushing that part of him to smithereens, especially in the wake of said seventh brush of death; this time at the hands- wheels- of a cart of minstrels this woman had strode in front of boldly with her nose- once again- in a book.

The fact the minstrels were quite loud, and therefore should have disturbed her reading, did not escape him as he relayed this to Miriel. Loudly.

She regarded him as one would a curious insect and pushed her glasses up higher on her nose, unapologetic. She claimed to have seen him coming along and predicted he would save her.

What bewilders him more is the fact she expected this blatantly from Lon’Qu of all people. And then that line of thought is wrecked by the next words out her mouth.

_The first few instances were accidents, but they raised a curious question. Was my attendant increase in heart rate purely the result of proximal danger? A second situational cause could be postulated: proximity to you. Perhaps contact with someone unfamiliar was the cause of my momentary excitation. The only way to be sure was to collect data, which entailed replicating the experiment._

He was stupefied. _So you had to keep trying to die so I could keep saving you? What if I'd been too slow?_

 _An incisive criticism. My methodology failed to prepare for that contingency._ She admitted without shame.

Lon’Qu wanted to cut something down. The prickling under his skin from contact with her had mercifully receded (when had it started disappearing so quickly?) but embarrassment and rage took their place. Could this woman hear what she’s saying?

Offhandedly he groaned under his breath, _For a smart woman, you sure are dumb._ Then, louder, _So understand this—that was the last time I'm pulling you out of the fire! I'm uncomfortable enough around women as it is. I don't need you making it worse._

That seems to pique Miriel’s interests, and amount of nonsense that pours out of her mouth is staggering. Lon’Qu is thoroughly done with the conversation the moment she mentions anything regarding women- she started with a mention of cats, to which he replied on the note of all cats appearing the same to him. Miriel looked him over curiously before making the jump from cats to dead bodies.

And at that moment, he reached his threshold and Lon’Qu stalked away with only a mostly empty threat lobbed back in her direction.

Being around that woman was bad for his health.

* * *

He was startled when he came back to his tent the next day.

While the army had been rapidly growing as of late, Lon’Qu was one of the lucky few to still have a tent to himself. Only that appeared to have no longer been the case. A little brown spotted cat now lounged on his bedroll as if Naga herself had placed it there.

Lon’Qu approached, and stared down at it dumbfounded. The cat simply rolled over and paid him no mind. Running a hand through his hair, Lon’Qu retreated to the entrance of his tent and took a quick scope of the area to see if anyone was around that could have been the source of this. Seeing nothing, he returned to the cat.

 _Hey,_ he called gruffly to the animal. The creature didn’t stir beyond the flip of its tail. _Hey I’m talking to you,_ he growled as he stuck out a hand to roust the cat himself. The cat finally deemed it worthwhile to acknowledge the human hand invading its space, and looked lazily to the appendage’s owner. Lon’Qu met the yellow eyes of the little cat with wariness, and the cat only blinked back in response.

Then, it gave his hand a little lick. He withdrew it like it was on fire, but the cat seemed at peace with the situation and returned to its nap. Giving it one more indecisive look, Lon’Qu decided to leave it alone and turned to readying himself for bed. By the time he was ready for sleep, the cat still hadn’t moved. Somehow Lon’Qu couldn’t bring himself to move it, and instead opted for his cloak and the floor. The next morning, he awoke to find the cat nestled under his arm like it had been there the whole night.

And all the mornings after, the cat is there, nestled against him. It seems that it has made the decision to take up permanent residence in Lon’Qu’s tent. Somehow this doesn’t bother him.

He decides to call it Spud.

Spud was his constant companion around camp. And apparently, it made him seem more approachable, as not once, not twice, but three times has the Ylissian princess come around begging to pet it. And that was just her alone. Several other members of the Shepherds including the clumsy Pegasus knight and her redheaded friend had also wanted to pet Spud. And then that blithely idiotic axe fighter Vaike had outright said he, _never saw Lon’Qu as an animal kinda guy_ , but thought that it _was cute he let the cat follow him around like it did._

Vaike nearly lost a few fingers that day. But that was beside the point. Lon’Qu found himself in contact with more people regularly than he had been since his days in the slums where he had to band together with the other gutter rats to survive. The familiarity, while jarring, isn’t all that unwelcome.

The only person who seems to have kept their distance from him recently was Miriel. He hadn’t seen a hair of her outside of battle the past several weeks, and though he’s thankful her thirst for near-death has been slaked, the complete absence of her makes a part of him nervous. It gets so distracting that he starts searching for her ridiculous hat in the mess hall, looking for her voice around the campfire, polishing his sword for hours on end in the barracks in the hope she’ll traipse in at some point.

He doesn’t know why he does it. He just knows he doesn’t trust her to keep herself out of trouble. But why he cares, he also doesn’t know.

One evening after returning from the barracks (another fruitless attempt to see her), he and Spud were making their way back to his tent, but once he reached the entrance, Lon’Qu knew something was wrong. The flap was left undone. Fearing bandits (or worse, Risen), he drew his sword slowly, and pushed aside the tent flap.

The first thing he saw was the outline of a tall figure. He didn’t hesitate, leaping forth and dismembering the shape in two quick slashes. Out of the corner of his eye, he located another one, striking out and downing it in a single sweep. A third and fourth figure were closer to the wall, and he kicked one down and beheaded the other one in the same motion.

The head went flying, narrowly missing Spud who leapt away with a hiss, and the falling body of the other one followed down, the arm falling off- again causing the cat to flee in panic- before the rest of the body crumbled.

_… Crumbled?_

Ripping open two of the window flaps, light spilled into the tent and Lon’Qu got his first good look at his enemies. Blank white eyes greeted him from the beheaded face; body, skin, and hair all the same ghostly tone. Half of the figure’s torso had crushed and crumbled, white dust in the place of blood spreading on the floor.

They were statues. Fragments of plaster littered the space, the powdered fragments of their bodies dancing in the air- bodies that upon closer look were all feminine. And mostly had no arms.

Lon’Qu knew immediately who was responsible.

 _Bah!_ He sheathed his sword angrily and shoved aside the flap again, stomping outside. He barely registered Spud trotting along beside him as he stormed across camp, people leaping left and right out of his way, ignoring the rest who didn’t.

Miriel’s tent was in the center of camp. He pushed through without announcing himself. She was sitting at her makeshift desk (of books) with book and quill in her lap, turning when he came in.

_All right! Why did you do it?!_

She adjusted her glasses. _Your question is far too vague for—_

_You filled my tent with statues of women! And most of them had no arms!_

_Ah, yes. That._ She placed a thoughtful hand to her cheek. _Your question was ambiguous, Lon'qu. Specificity is paramount in any inquiry. Regardless, the statues were an experiment to learn the extent of your aversion reflex. And now I may collect the results! So then, how did you react to the statues?_

Lon’Qu’s hands were shaking. The anger he felt for the intrusion clashed with the sudden, very profound _relief_ of finally seeing her again for space in his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. _By smashing them._

He hated how downright enthused she looked from his answer. _I see. So an inanimate likeness DOES trigger your reflex._

_No, that's not the—_

_Thank you for your cooperation. We can proceed to the next test once I've procured sufficient female monkeys to—_

_For the love of all the gods, no!_ He couldn’t help from shouting this time. His outburst settled heavily in the air between them, and Miriel seemed set aback. Lon’Qu couldn’t bear to look at her. He ran a hand through his hair. _You don't get it._

 _I have made an error in my calculations?_ She replied in a quiet voice. While he couldn’t look at her, it seemed she couldn’t look away from him.

_I didn't get rid of the statues because they looked like women. There was barely enough room in my tent to stand! Plus I didn't want people to think I had...issues._

_Ah! I see your point. A man who claims to be constitutionally averse to women with a tent full of statues? You might indeed be the subject of scrutiny, to say nothing of scurrilous rumor-_

_Not to mention, one fell and nearly crushed Spud!_

Miriel’s elegant features scrunched in confusion. _Spud?_

 _Spud!_ Lon’Qu echoed loudly. Looking around, he found the cat sitting beside the wall. He pointed to it. _Spud._

Her normally mild expression fell to outright surprise as her eyes grew wide and her eyebrows rose. Miriel’s hand fell away from her face and she lifted her gaze to Lon’Qu’s. He was as confused as she was, watching her with a cocked eyebrow as Spud wound its way around his leg and purred.

A moment passed, and Miriel’s eyes fell closed. She adjusted her glasses. _I see._ And when she opened her eyes again, he was greeted with the awkward yet charming press of lips that formed Miriel’s smile. _I’m glad to hear at least one aspect of my experiment was a success._

He was blindsided by her smile. _Pardon?_

_You once stated that all cats appear the same to you. That spurred my inquiry, would it be easier, if at all possible, to ease you into routine contact with females if we began with a non-threatening subject that would not trigger your phobia immediately on sight? A subject as you confirmed, such as a feline._

It took a few moments for her words to sink it. Lon’Qu’s gaze dragged back to the cat entwining itself between his legs, settling on Spud’s bright yellow eyes. The cat blinked at him. He lifted his gaze back to Miriel. _Spud… is a girl?_

 _Precisely. And with the relative ease of your stance with a specimen of the female variety pressed against your leg, it would appear that your phobia does not affect your relationship with her._ Miriel’s smile reappeared for the briefest moment, and Lon’Qu was stunned a moment longer. _That’s a pleasing result. For both my experiment, and for your ability to overcome this._

His ‘ability to overcome this’. Such thoughts had long since passed from his head, and if anything, he’d found comfort in the fact he would never allow a woman to come into his life and take the place so long held by another- even if that other was a ghost. So then, why did the unfamiliar spark of hope ignite in his chest at her words?

Miriel cleared her throat. _In regards to the statues, this was an oversight in my methodology. I apologize. We'll repeat the experiment in a secluded location._

Lon’Qu couldn’t take it anymore. His heart was pounding in his chest, just as it always did when he saved Miriel from her own hapless accidents. Scooping Spud up, he stuck her under one arm and turned stiffly away. _No, we won't._

_My heart is racing at the prospect of clean, reliable data!_

His heart was just simply racing. _I said forget it!_

And so, Lon’Qu stormed his way _back_ across camp, fellow shepards still jumping this way and that out of his path, and he still ignoring the ones who didn’t. All the while, his mind churned with the fact this was the first time he’d welcomed a female of any variety into his life after so many years.

And that it had been the first time he’d ever seen Miriel smile.


	3. Still Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day Emmeryn died was the first time he held her hand.

The day Emmeryn died was the first time he held her hand.

Miriel had grown accustomed to loneliness- though that’s not the term she usually applied to it, she much preferred ‘self-sufficiency’- but she had never quite realized how solitary she was before. Before Lon’Qu. Before the Shepherds. Before Emmeryn.

But the epiphany had not hit her until _after_ Emmeryn, after she gave herself to fate to spare others the weight of the choice.

Miriel could appreciate such methodology. Sacrifice the few to save the many; it statistically produced the best overall results. But she also couldn’t condone the wild variable left in the Exault’s choice: was the Fire Emblem an equal exchange? It was said it would save the world in a great tragedy, but would that tragedy even come to pass? There had been no specifics given, no examples, no hypothesis to make. Just hope, hope that such a tragedy would come and her sacrifice wouldn’t have been in vain.

But what possible tragedy could have been greater than Emmeryn’s own death?

The foreign sentimentality of the wish weighed on Miriel the entire trip through the Midmire. It was raining as they set up camp and it was still raining when everyone retired to their tents to tend to their grief.

If Miriel believed in such a concept, she would have queried that Naga had a sense of irony; 92% of Plegia’s water source came from the rains in the summer, while the other 8% was reclaimed water due to little to no rain fell the rest of the year. Yet it was already winter, and the rain was heavy and didn’t show any signs of letting up.

A more artistic soul such a Virion might’ve claimed the skies were crying. Miriel was the only one still sitting outside because the rhythm of the rain drowned out the sounds of her comrades’ tears.

The sounds made her uncomfortable, for more than reason that most emotions were lost on her, but for the fact she couldn’t express the heavy feelings of her own grief. While the ultimate decision for her to be admitted the Shepherds had laid with Chrom, it was Emmeryn whom deemed her studies worthy enough to bestow her the space for her lab, paid for the materials of her research. Emmeryn who allowed Miriel, back then a headstrong seventeen-year-old woman armed with nothing but her family’s name and her mother’s journal, to take time and resources away from their war-torn haildom and put them towards her.

Even seven years later, it made no logical sense. Perhaps that’s why she feels so unspeakable sad.

She was sitting under the cover of hastily thrown up mess tent, at a table with her mother’s journal and a lantern. They were all the company she wished for at the moment.

But her highly-attuned ears found more than rain falling in the night- the crunch of boots on sand. The clouds made the dark night even darker (What made the night so dark? What made the day so bright? Cycles and cycles, Miriel was studying it, that day-) and no additional light filtered through the door when he lifted it. But Miriel knew the weight of his footsteps. She knew his presence when he came to sit near her.

Lon’Qu was thoroughly sodden from his treck through the downpour. Hair stuck to his face, and those narrow, undiscernible eyes were sharp (they were not Plegian eyes; she had been observing their enemies, ever in her quest to identify those eyes, and none of them had the distinctive curve at end). He was sitting some way away from her, but his stare made her feel as if he was mere breaths away.

She had no words for him. It appeared as though he had none to extend to her either. As numb to her own emotions as she typically was, she knew that the Exalt’s sacrifice would not affect those not of Ylisse as heavy as it did her countrymen. She could not expect any empathy from Lon’Qu. She would not know what to do with it.

But it was not empathy nor words he gave her, but rather his very presence. He is quiet, and other than the unease of his rapid breathing (his phobia in full effect, she notes with familiarity), he is still. The hand he brings up, shaking as it pauses for a moment, grows still when he places it upon hers and their fingers overlap.

He holds her hand, and Miriel can feel the tension in his skin. She unconsciously finds herself leaning closer, but Lon’Qu recoiled just the slightest. She stopped moving, simply holding tight to his hand and listening to her heart beat as erratically as it always did in his company. As shaken as he appears, he holds her hand, and Miriel does not wish for solitude any longer.

Instead, she wishes for him to be closer than he’ll let her. That weighs as deeply and darkly on her as grief does.


	4. Broken Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time either of them knew love it was in very different ways.

The first time either of them knew love it was in very different ways.

For Lon’Qu is came in the form of Ke’ri. She was a few years older than him, good and kind in every aspect in the way she cared for a slum rat like him. He met her when he was twelve and she was fourteen, and against all odds, love blossomed between them. He never found himself wanting to do anything but be with her, her companion on the roof the nights her insomnia was bad and the days in her bed when her parents weren’t home. A blissful two and a half years they were able to live that way, the happiest in Lon’Qu’s twenty-five years of life. The day he lost her broke him open and apart, and he left Chon’sin because the pervasive memory of her threatened to cripple him at every turn. The silence of those first few years without her would dwell on his soul, and even finding a home in Ferox and its Khan didn’t fill the void; still he knew love, true love, and never regretted her for it. Even when the touch of another brought the memory of her blood on his hands to the forefront of Lon’qu’s mind, his skin crawling from her dead flesh on his own, he couldn’t regret it.

For Miriel it was the thing she’d never have. Being the daughter of a noble already set her apart from the other children who inhabited her upper-middle class neighborhood in Ylisstol, but having a brilliant scientist as a mother who was spurned by the other nobles for her eccentricities was an entirely different matter altogether. The fact Miriel looked up to her- pouring over her journals, experimenting with her techniques, developing a vocabulary based on chemical compounds and classic literature- did not help in the slightest. The other nobles took jabs at her mother whenever they could, calling her crazed or mentally ill, and naturally their children followed suit. The commoner children didn’t like the long words she spoke or the fact she couldn’t play rough without her glasses falling off or breaking, so they ridiculed her too- told her no one would like a strange girl like her, laughed that no one would ever love her. And young Miriel would return home to her large house that rarely housed guests or hosted parties because they all feared the ‘mad woman’ in the basement and her spells, and Miriel would join that woman in the basement and be wrapped up in the arms of her mother, who soothed her worries with a mother’s love and a scientist’s vocabulary. She knew the love of her mother and soon she grew to devalue the emotional opinions of her peers, and as the space between the head and her heart grew, those children who’s jeers of her unlovable nature faded into a dull murmur over time.


	5. Unspoken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time she saved him, she looked terrified.
> 
> The first time they said goodbye, neither of them said what they should have.

The first time she saved him, it was their final battle.

Lon’qu was careless, and got himself pushed into a corner by a Plegian Hero. The end was surely nigh, his body too injured to fathom movement and the sharp edge of a sword quickly seeking his throat. He did not want to die, but it seemed as if fate had other plans.

He did not close his eyes as the Hero bared down on him. This is how he was able to watch the miraculous feat of Miriel throwing herself between him and his attacker. The sword completed its arch, and for one heart stopping moment Lon’Qu can picture the sword buried in Miriel with an eerie clarity (he knows what it would look like, he _knows how_ Ke’ri looked with a sword protruding through her chest like a sapling through earth, like a million nightmares of the same image twisted and warped over and over again), until she moves again and he can see his savior.

She caught the sword with her spell book. It was so thick that the weapon had pierced only the cover and about half way through the pages, leaving Miriel completely unharmed and the Hero completely perplexed. That momentary hesitation on their opponent’s part was just the moment Lon’Qu needed to find the gap in his armor, rising up and plunging his killing edge into it in all the time it took to breath.

The Hero fell, spurting blood, and Miriel took the utmost care in removing her impaled tome from his sword. Her moves were swift and precise, as always, but there was a stiffness to them Lon’Qu did not recognize. She turned to him then, her already fair skin completely drained of color and her eyes the cloudiest grey he had ever seen them.

Were it anyone else, he would have said she looked terrified.

But not Miriel. She was as unflappable as they came. And she didn’t seem that adept at feeling emotions of any kind, so whatever Lon’Qu thought he saw in her was probably just wishful thinking. Or a side effect of being woozy from blood loss.

He fell to his knees the moment he remembered his very mortal state, holding tight to his waist where the worst wound had been sustained. He couldn’t feel the pain anymore, and that was a bad sign.

 _You should endeavor to heal._ Miriel’s crisp voice broke through his haze.

_I know that, woman! I… don’t have anything to heal with-_

A hand on his chin, lifting his head up. Miriel avoided his gaze as she waved a stave over him. The bright, smoky feeling of healing magic enveloped him, and an instinctual relief followed. A few circles over him, and she was done. A moment later, she pulled away.

The ache was back in Lon’Qu’s body, and though it wasn’t pleasant, it was better than the cold numbness of death. He rose to his feet, testing his tired muscles.

 _When did you learn to do that?_ He asked gruffly. He had seen her just earlier this morning- they ate breakfast together- and he certainty couldn’t remember her being able to do that then.

_Just recently. But this is not the time. There are still enemies to dispose of, and we must vacate, lest you’d like to be deposited at the threshold of mortality again._

She turned to him, and when they met eyes again, all that he’d hoped he’d seen was gone. And then she turned away, and he couldn’t see anything anymore.

* * *

 The first time they said goodbye, neither of them said what they should have.

The war with Plegia was won, and the Shepherds were finally going home. Today was the day they split their ranks, those going back to Regna Ferox and beyond traveling north, those returning to Ylisstol west.

Lon’Qu was not expecting a farewell from anyone. Least of all from Miriel.

He was packing to leave when the soft clearing of a throat drew his attention to the mouth of the tent, where he found her idling in the entryway. The sun had barely risen, painting the sky pink and gold, making Miriel’s fiery hair glow in the new light.

He stopped what he was doing, regarding his visitor with mild surprise. _Miriel. You need something?_

In her arms laid a thick binding of scrollwork, in addition to a small pouch with a drawstring cord. Upon his acknowledgement, she strode brazenly across his tent to deposit the items into Lon’Qu’s lap. _This is the compiled findings on all my studies of your phobia, in addition to detailed notes on the experiments ran, and full hypotheses on cause and course of action for future trials. It is my hope that with these materials you shall continue on your journey to overcoming this trauma, even if I am not the one spearheading the research._

That explained the scrollwork, but not the pouch. He pulled open the drawstring, dumping the contents out of his hand and finding a kind of smooth stone.

 _That is a whetstone, specifically for your preferred variety of sword._ She explained primly, before clearing her throat again as if unsure how, or if, she needed to elaborate. _I saw it while perusing the market for the female monkeys required for the next experiment on your condition. I was unable to procure the primates, but I was able to purchase this instead._

She folded her hands together, her lips drawing into a thin press that almost resembled the smile that had blindsided Lon’Qu so many months ago- but this time he saw nothing but frailty in it. _You were a most interesting specimen, and I thank you for your contributions to my research. I wish you safe travels back._

It was spoken her normal calculative coolness, but the ice edge to her voice was brittle. Miriel stood there a moment longer, simply watching Lon’Qu after her crisp farewell rather than leaving like the tone of her voice inclined her to do. But she just stood there, her hands folded, her mouth a pressed line.

Lon’Qu could not find words. Her sudden appearance, the gifts, and he was beyond perplexed. The kind words rendered him silent, and made his heartbeat sound infinitely louder. He knew he should say something, but nothing came.

The moment passed, and then Miriel turned away. Every logical thought in his mind was thrown aside by instinct, the same instinct that had driven him to pull her back from that cliff over a year ago, and his arm shot out to grab hers when she threatened to go past the point of no return yet again.

A million needles ran up his arm, and the hard press of her wrist bones were riotous against his skin. But just as that day on the cliff, and that night in the Midmire, he held on. _I… uh, never thanked you for saving my life._

Miriel pivoted back towards him, looking not as his hand on hers but rather his face. Her eyes were hidden by the shine the early sun cast off her spectacles, but he could see the hard tension of her mouth was gone. _I never paid restitution for you saving mine._

They looked at each other, Lon’Qu unable to see her eyes and Miriel able to see his and still wonder marvelously at what kind of eyes they were, and something unspoken passed between them. In the light of dawn, the awakening of a new day, they both felt it.

Miriel didn’t know what this budding feeling was, and had no basis on how to act on it.

Lon’Qu knew what this was, and was terrified of it.

But this unspoken feeling would go unspoke. The sounds of camp arose in the morning air, and Lon’Qu had to finish packing. Miriel broke their clasp first, turning quickly with a final goodbye and striding out of the tent- and what Lon’Qu was sure of, out his life.

But two years later, war would call them back together.


	6. Reckless Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His will is strong, but not strong enough against her. The first time they saw each other in two years, and he isn't any stronger.

The first time they saw each other in two years was on mess duty. Lon’Qu sat outside of makeshift mess tent they’d leaned against the sea wall at the Feroxi port after their clash with the Valamese vanguard, peeling potatoes with a single spiral of his knife. The motion itself was so practiced, his mind wondered, and he paid no attention to the peels as they fell against his boots. Spud at his heel batted one lazily.

Once upon a time, there’d been a bucket underneath to catch those peels, and he’d have taken them home to eat, his only stable source of food for many years in the slums of Chon’sin. It was not Chon’sin that captured his mind at the moment, however, but rather the form of a woman. A woman he thought he’d never see again, but one he’d just seen jumping and spinning about the battlefield with her fire magic and fire hair, a woman he thought recklessly about and tried to ignore.

But she fills his thoughts nonetheless.

She fills his thoughts so fully, he does not hear the steps that approach him, nor the figure that settles across from him on a crate and crosses her legs primly at the ankles. He only registers her presence when she speaks.

_Greetings, Lon’Qu._

His gaze snaps up and he is met with the face that has haunted him for years. Miriel is not smiling, but there is a certain light in her dark gray eyes that strikes him more profoundly than a smile. She looks the same,  _precisely_  the same, but precise is the word that would describe every aspect of Miriel’s being, from the precisely straight lines of her haircut, to her precisely ironed clothing, to her  _precisely_  acute, unwavering gaze.

He’s staring, and he knows it. She cocks her head like a bespectacled owl. Her hair falls in her eyes, and Lon’Qu almost wants to brush it away.

He does not. Instead his gaze falls to his hands and he focuses all too hard on the very action he had been doing mindlessly since childhood. _Miriel,_ said in a gruff voice, is his greeting.

Content with his acknowledgement, she nodded and produced a small paring knife, reaching into the basket of potatoes and began peeling one. Lon’Qu isn’t watching her, per se, but his fixated gaze on the ground allows him a good look at her hands working from his peripheral vision. She’s not bad at it, her movements measured and precise as the rest of her. Her hands are mottled with callouses and bruises, and handle the rough skin of the root vegetable well. Hands Lon’Qu remembered feeling in absolute clarity.

He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that.

Several minutes of silent peeling later, Miriel speaks up.  _I see you still have your feline companion with you. Does that mean you’ve made new progress on your ailment?_

 _No. I was busy._ He peeled his potato with a particularly violent swipe.

 _Neither have I. I have been preoccupied with helping develop spells for irrigation and crop health, as Chrom has deigned rebuilding the haildom to be top priority._ Miriel skinned another potato and offered the curled peel to Spud to play with.  _It takes away precious time from my more scientific ventures, but I suppose little would be accomplished without sustenance to fuel it._

Lon’Qu grunted in response. He wasn’t about to relinquish his grip on the carefully controlled indifference he was forcing himself to face her with. He’d rather stab himself.

She was quiet for a moment before continuing, _Would you allow me to study you again perhaps? We must make use of this fortunate opportunity. And possibly find some more favorable conclusions this time._

He should say no. Immediately, it is the response that slings itself across his less favorable emotions in an effort to stop them in their tracks. He doesn’t want to. And he really doesn’t want to walk in to a tent filled with statues again.

But-

_Do what you want._

-it’s Miriel, who will doubtless find a way even if Lon’Qu tried to decline again. And it’s Miriel, the woman who occupied more space in his mind than he cared to admit, and the woman whom he was ready to never see again because even the  _thought_ of seeing her was too much.

His will is strong, but not strong enough against her.

_Excellent! I shall start drawing up notes at once. It will likely take a few days, but act as you would normally, and I shall take of the rest._

The way his head and heart tangled together around her, nothing about Lon’Qu was ever normal.

_Fine._


	7. Lonely Seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time he kissed her, the world burned down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello again. I'm so super sorry, I didn't mean to go on hiatus as long as it did, but life's funny like that. 
> 
> Full disclosure, everything prior to this chapter was pre-written and pre-edited; I actually started writing this story in December of 2016, but stopped during the summer of 2017 and just started posting it. I've worked on a handful of projects since then, and I hated neglecting this story, but I also feared I would just simply never finish it. Now that my life has evened out (somewhat) I realized how much I love writing this story,   
> and how much fun I really do have writing about this couple. It's by far my favorite thing I have ever written, and I want to continue with it. Just know from here on out, I'm posting chapters as I write them, but fear not! This story will be finished by the end of Spring. 
> 
> So with that, let's continue!

The Shepherds re-formed for the time being, Miriel packed her bags (superfluous as always, but better prepared than repentant) and set sail with her comrades for Valm. Having never set foot upon a ship before, the sea sickness was horrific at first but all the time below decks allowed her to study a variety of conditions aboard sea vessels. And once the illness passed, the way the world seemed to bleed off at edges made for some fascinating nights spent examining the endless array of stars.

During this time, Lon’Qu proved an invaluable resource. It was jagged and lapsing, but slowly and surely, Miriel and Lon’Qu were gaining back the odd ease they found within the other’s company, and began to naturally gravitate together. With many of the Shepherds succumbing to the monotony of the sea, boredom was apt motivation for many to participate in Miriel’s studies. Lon’Qu was a chiefly willing assistant, helping with supplies, passing out potions and condolences to their (willing or unwitting) test subjects, and always ready to pull her back from the rail when her musings got too in-depth and nearly sent her flailing overboard.

They fell into a rhythm like this, innately drawn together as Miriel’s mother had proposed the Earth and moon do. In the addition of this closeness, no small amount of progress on his phobia was made. They got to the point she could rest her hand on his arm with minimal negative feedback, something that sent Miriel’s heart racing with the memory of his hand on hers and the possibility of getting to experience it again.

One night, she was still awake come the young hours of morning, back pressed to the main mast holding court with a semi-circle of ship diagrams and a low-burning oil lamp. After the first few weeks at sea spent below becoming familiar with the interior of the ship, Miriel had taken to studying its parts as a hobby to fill the time between experiments. A lump of charcoal in hand, she was adding the final touches to her schema of a galleon when a pair of boots thumped down from the upper deck and approached.

Starlight clung to the embellishments of Lon’Qu’s swordmaster uniform, glowing pinpricks that caught Miriel’s attention before the rest of him was flickered into view by the lamp glow. His strong, angular facial features caught in the red shadows of the flame, eyes as indiscernible as ever, the bags under them speaking to a bone-deep tiredness she’d observed growing heavier with each passing day. There was only a slight pause before he unstrung his swords and sat down.

Crossing his legs and laying his scabbards across his lap, Lon’Qu settled in across from Miriel, casting eyes into the sea of ship drawings at his feet. He extricated the closest one from beneath its neighbor, leaning forward to examine it in the light. There was an effortless comfortability in his movements that stoked Miriel’s pride- and other less definable emotions.

 _That one is called brigantine_ _. It is a two-masted sailing vessel with a square-rigged foremast and a minimum two sails on the main mast._  Miriel pointed out the corresponding points on the diagram, leaning forward into Lon’Qu as she dotted the parchment with charcoal-laden fingers.  _It’s fascinating really, there are multiple sail plans for the same ship base. Classical sail plans have_ _lateen rigged on two masts and between eight and twelve oars on each side, however more modern plans lack_ _lateen sails but instead bear square-rigged on the foremast and have a gaff-rigged mainsail with square rig above it on the mainmast. Plans have evolved as the uses of the ship have changed over time- from oar-driven war vessels to colonizing watercraft_.

 _I… see._  Lon’Qu scowled at the drawing a moment longer before returning it to the pile. He settled back into his previous position, and Miriel sat back as well, unable to rationalize her desire to continue leaning forward.

She cleared her throat, and gesturing to the diagram she’d been working on.  _This is known as a galleon. It is the kind of ship upon which we currently sail. It is a large, multi-decked sailing vessel used as an armed cargo carrier, typically. As I’ve already stated, they are quite corpulent ships, but measurements vary on how sizeable they actually are. If you see here, I’ve made some annotations on our ship’s dimensions-_

Lon’Qu cocked his head and edged closer, squinting slightly to read Miriel’s clawed script. They were elbow to elbow now, fabric and body heat intertwined like fingers. She read the measurements to him, and he grunted along in assent. When she was done, she set the drawing aside, and once again shifted backwards to allow him space. This time, Lon’Qu did not move away.

The creaking moans of the ship and the sputtering of the lamp surrounded them in companionable quiet, the hour yet early enough the sky was still alight with the brightest stars. Miriel sifted through the constellations, cataloguing them in her mind as Lon’Qu flipped through the rest of her materials.

Neither of them were much for pretense, but Miriel still found herself asking,  _How fare you this evening, Lon’Qu?_

 _Fine_. He grunted, then added,  _I’m on watch duty._

_I see._

_What about you?_

_How am I faring or am I on watch duty?_

_Uh, the first one._

_Oh. I am also adequate._

There was a creak as Lon’Qu resituated himself, joining her against the mast. He folded his arms and stretched out his legs, left knee pressed against Miriel’s right. Their gazes met for one infinite moment before they were both turning back to the stars.

She simply scanned the skies for a short while, but before long, Miriel was pulling her mother’s journal from her sage’s robes, and set about to adding to her star chart. Idleness never suited her well, but she was unwilling to return to ship schemas if it meant having to lean away even the slightest bit from Lon’Qu’s elbow.

So, she situated the leather-bound monstrosity in her lap and balanced an ink well on her knee to minimize the need to move beyond tilting her head to the stars. She reclined into the mast, and connected stars on parchment as her mind connected the points of where she and Lon’Qu touched.

How long this lasted, she couldn’t measure. But by the sleepy glow of the dying lanturn she catalogued two and a half new pages of stars, smudged one of those pages with charcoal, depleted two-thirds of her ink well, gained six dots of ink on her hand, had Lon’Qu move against her four times, and never moved an inch herself once.

Miriel recounted each of these instances through twice, careful to examine every sensation and reaction for indication of required further action.

Once satisfied with her examinations, she rethreaded the bookmark through her journal’s pages and snapped it closed. The noise was sharp, seizing the moment for itself over the quiet drone of waves and the whine of wood. Beside her, Lon’Qu made no indication it had bothered him. In fact, he’d made no indication of anything in some time.

Miriel twisted from the shoulder to look at him (still reluctant to shift too far away lest they lose contact), and what she saw fastened her.

His arms were still folded, body held in the tight shape of one that does not uncoil much, but his shoulders had shifted, his head lolled to the side, and the man was undeniably encumbered by slumber. His face hung mostly in shadow, jaw clenched shut and the shadows of his eyelashes like razors on the scarred panes of his skin. The bags under his eyes were no less cruel covered in shade.

With her head turned such as it was, Miriel’s chin was level with his nose. The sea breeze tickled his hair which in turn tickled her neck. She spotted a small scar on the jut of his jaw near his left earlobe. He was so close she could feel the repetitions of his chest breathing. She counted the repetitions of his chest breathing. She wanted to touch the edges where his eyelids turned up into his skull.

She wanted to press his hand to her heart and see what he would do when he felt its thrum. She wanted to press her hand to his heart and feel what it would do when she did.

She wanted to feel everything. Without sound logic to act upon, she did nothing.

For how long this lasted, she couldn’t measure. Lon’Qu only stirred once beyond the initial four times she’d noted earlier, and that single additional motion was to slip down the tiniest amount and rest his nose against her shoulder. Miriel relogged the points on contact between them-  _left knee to right knee, thighs, hips, left elbow to ribcage, chin and shoulder, hair and neck_ \- and it is so very much more than simply laying a hand on his arm.

It was the first time they had ever touched like this. It feels like too immense of an accomplishment not to document, but Miriel can’t move. She won’t move.

She won’t do anything. Because within her heart, an organ that’s duty she’d previously only believed to be revitalizing her body, she remembers him pulling away from her. And she fears it happening again, fears what she would do and feel if it happened again.

Miriel fears how it would break her heart. How an emotion could physically debilitate an organ, to pose a serious threat to one’s survival, she wouldn’t have surmised to understand it. But the very thought of him moving away-of shrinking back- from her is enough to cause a hiccup in the rhythm. She can see the fault lines in the surface of her heart, could pinpoint exactly where and how it will break if this outcome is realized.

She doesn’t move, she won’t move, for fear of what he’ll do. This feeling she couldn’t identify now has a name, a species and a diagnosis and no viable cure, and it weighs as heavy on her as Lon’Qu’s breathing does.

* * *

 

The first time he kissed her, they’d been on Lon’Qu’s home continent five months.

Sailing home for the first time in over a decade, there was an indescribable heaviness in Lon’Qu’s gut he couldn’t shake. He’d left because he couldn’t stand to even be on same the continent as Ke’ri’s buried body was; if he could still feel her ghost after all this time, what fresh horror would haunt him now that he was returning to the scene of his crime thirteen years later?

Miriel, in all of her odd, frustrating, fascinating, precise splendor, was a welcome distraction. She was as hapless as always, incredible and infuriating all in one breath, but the elation of seeing her again after those two long years was building in Lon’Qu’s chest to painful proportions.

During their voyage to Valm, she made it an ambition to run nearly every experiment she’d ever drawn up now that she had the time and controlled environment to do so. Miriel ran him near ragged between the endless trials and keeping an eye on her for when her scientific mumbles got so profane she stopped paying attention to her surroundings and started leaning over the railing.

Miraculously between that, she still found time to tend to Lon’Qu and his phobia. Her new itinerary of experiments was no more kind (and no less strange) than before, but it was time she dedicated solely to him, and the sentimentality was not lost on Lon’Qu. She was his anchor, that month at sea. He barely slept, the sinking dread and rising guilt that tormented him increasing in intervals, but Miriel and her experiments kept him on his feet.

Once off the boat, however, her scientific inquisition turned towards a new research topic: the appearance of the ‘children of the future’. Lucina was living, breathing, absurd yet near indisputable proof of the fact, and though Lon’Qu might’ve once thought it ludicrous, years of fighting the reanimated dead made most men believers. Miriel continued to remain unconvinced, however, and with each new child they came across her inquiry grew more intense.

And while Lon’Qu himself was fairly busy- fighting a war with his homeland and fighting a war within himself- the fact he started seeing less and less of her frustrated him. With the moor she provided for his less desirable thoughts gone, they began to tread closer to the surface than he would’ve liked.

The nightmares are a harsh reminder of this. Memories bled dry by age burned in the back of Lon’Qu’s mind like kindling, lit by the black fires of his night terrors, turning them into grotesque, melted things. Ke’ri’s face was no longer even capable of smiling at Lon’Qu- the way the dreams always began, as a  _dream_ , with her smiling at him as she had that day before getting her chest ripped open- only falling apart, piece by piece, hair and eyes and skin sloughing down her face drenched in black terror as her lipless mouth wailed for him to save her.

His only saving grace had been the serendipity of stumbling upon Panne’s bag of herbs.

After a rather strenuous misunderstanding (involving him chasing her around for the better part of a day while she ran away from him), she’d made him a tea that silenced the nightmares under the footy taste of the pungent greens. It didn’t last more than a few days, so he’d been paying the her visits regularly- and what was more, he’d begun to enjoy them.

Panne’s company was different from Miriel’s in that it was an understanding in fewer words. The mage could prattle on using practically every pentasyllabic word in the common tongue about absolutely nothing for infinite amounts of time. The taguel made every word count.

They’d begun to find themselves together on the battlefield often, and off it even more. Through nights when neither of them found they could sleep, they’d sit awake, drinking tea and only sometimes talking. It was a quieter sort of relationship than the metaphoric flaming-cart-rolling-off-a-cliff that Lon’Qu and Miriel’s was, and he found he liked it just the same. Spud was fond of Panne, too, and supposedly animals were good judges of character.

Miriel still called for Lon’Qu’s attention when she needed help for an experiment or a hand on the battlefield, but hardly anything else. However, despite the widening distance between them, whenever he saw her eating in the mess tent he’d always slide in across from her and they would enjoy a meal together, even if she had her nose in a book and they never said a word to each other.

It was these moments, however brief, that still made Lon’Qu’s heart thud mightily whenever he saw her.

What was more, almost more than anything, he missed home. Regna Ferox. Every step on this soil felt as foreign to him as it was to the rest of the Shepherds. He missed the crunch of snow, the heartiness of Basilio’s laugh, the knowledge he was exactly where he was wanted and needed and that where wasn’t anything more he needed than that.

This went on for months. Seasons. Summer melted into Fall, Robin drove them farther into the Valamese empire’s side, and Lon’Qu drank a truly staggering amount of foot-tea, longing for the dull silence of the two years when he didn’t have to feel this way.

The spell was broken on the crest of Autumn and Winter.

On a night too cold for Fall but not quite frigid enough for Winter, she called him to her tent. It was after dinner, after the light of the campfire had fallen low and most of their comrades had tucked themselves into their bedrolls with their significant others. Miriel was a sharp red-black shadow in the gentle light of the single candle that kept her company when Lon’Qu arrived at her tent.

This evening had a complicated pretense to it, the candle shedding light on Miriel’s personal disarray only exacerbating it; hat displaced from her head, bangs falling in her eyes, features too sharp and pale even for precise, willowy Miriel. It gave the whole scene a dream-like effervescence, warm dark intermingling with the light, Miriel’s slender, red shape a living, dying, flame. 

There is no significant other in her bedroll, only a pile of books that might as well be- a thought that sours Lon’Qu’s mood.

He’d all but ran to her once he’d seen the note left in his tent, the tent that still belonged solely to him, after bodies tied themselves together and shared tents willingly, that felt too big for a sword and a cat. Spud was sleeping soundly when Lon’Qu left her- though he had seriously considered bringing her along. There was a certain way Miriel’s face would always brighten when she saw her little experiment. He’d long since stopped denying how much he wanted to see that expression all the time.

Her dark eyes drifted up from her research notes when he breached the entrance of her tent, expressionless but holding him in place with such an enchantment it was almost physical. She didn’t ask him to sit down. Lon’Qu didn’t think he could’ve moved even if she had.

_Oh, there you are. Thank you for answering my query. I know it’s rather late, but I needed…_

She drifted off in uncharacteristic uncertainty, and he was enrapt by the familiar, pressing desire to know exactly what she needed.

Eventually she waved a hand, sighing in exhaustion.  _… Someone to relate my thoughts to. You’ve always been a willing recipient._

_Uh. Okay._

Her eyes flickered to his in a moment of solidarity, but as easy as flame flickers out, she was looking away, back down at her research. She still didn’t ask him to sit down. She’d probably forgotten.

_Now. As you know, I’ve been studying the phenomenon that these children of the future have presented. Time travel, the possibility of multiple realities, it’s all quite vexing to even ponder. But something that kept niggling me was the very… creation, if you will, of the children themselves. I’ve noted every child we’ve encountered, to whom the offspring claimed to have originate from, and the location and date of which they were discovered. I believe I’ve finally reached a posthumous theory on the determining factors of their very existences. I believe it lies in matrimony- the legally or formally recognized union of two people as partners in a personal relationship._

_I know what being married means, Miriel._

She blinks at this, but it doesn’t seem to have fazed her. She continued, uninhibited,  _For some time, I pondered the seemingly random appearances of children afterwards, first Lucina, followed by Severa, and then Inigo, and Brady, and I began to hypothesize that perhaps we all simply had children wondering about, and encountering them was a purely random chance. Supposedly, do I have a child that is currently wondering this realm of existence, even if I am not bound to another in matrimony? Are all these children but hypothesis of a similar reality as ours, potential outcomes that have no bearing on the current time? Do you have a child, Lon’Qu, though you too are unbound?_

His chest seized. There are no words or feelings that can describe the sensation coursing through him, imagining a child of Miriel’s in this world that he isn’t aware of even exists, a child he’s too terrified to even vainly ponder might be his own. The tent is losing its dream-like feeling- the fading light dying quicker, the shadows dripping down their faces instead of caressing the light- and it’s a nightmare Lon’Qu can’t wake up from.

Miriel doesn’t stop talking all the while.  _Upon examining the children and perceiving their stories, I was struck by a sudden realization: Lucina was the first descendant encountered, and this correlates to Chrom having been the first Shepard to marry. Cordelia married Gregor next, followed by Olivia and Stahl, and then Maribelle and Virion, and so forth. We have encountered children based upon pre-existing couplings. Which either means that my parallel universe theory is correct, as that theirs mirrors ours exactly, or that their reality is based upon ours, the outcomes of our choices directly affecting the fabric of their very existence-_

_Miriel._

_Oh, I’m deviating. But then a new hypothesis proposed itself. Is the actual act of marrying necessary for the creation of the child character? Does it have more to do with the romantic bond between people? Should two people share a bond, but not marry, will that still result in a child? What of two who want to be married, but have not done it yet? I pose that one due to your attachment to the taguel, Panne. You’ve grow close, I’ve noted, but not entered a marital contract. But in this hypothetic union, is there already a child present in another timeline? I suppose I can wait to authenticate this postulation, but I’d never presume to make you to put off wedding her for my results, but I suppose if you never do, I could continue to study-_

_Miriel._

Nothing has changed in the tone of her voice, or the cadence of which she spoke. But he can’t listen to it any more, he can’t listen to the way she sounds.

_Oh… yes?_

Lonely.

_What exactly do you want from me?_

_I’m not quite comprehending what you mean._

So… lonely.

_Why did you call me here?_

She seems taken aback, and he knows by now that is the closest thing to outright hurt she’ll ever show.

_I wanted someone to speak to. Is that so odd?_

_Coming from you, yes._

_I… see. I did not mean to incorrectly assume._

_You wouldn’t have to assume if you asked the right questions._

_A-and… what would those be?_

She falters. And it’s as if the whole world can hear how Lon’Qu’s stubborn heart finally breaks.

He isn’t sitting- he’s suddenly glad he never sat down, is glad she never wasted the breath to tell him to sit down, because he doesn’t have to wait the time it would take to get up- cross the room, and reach for her.

Seas roil, mountains quake, volcanoes erupt, somewhere someone is crying, and it is a cataclysm of terrifying proportions as he closes every breath of distance that had lived between him and others, him and her, since Ke’ri died. He pressed his lips to hers and held her face between his love-calloused hands, and Lon’Qu kissed Miriel for the first time.

This caught her clearly by surprise. She jumped, the motion causing their noses to bump and their mouths to separate, but he went back in and pressed her closer. He was probably rougher than he meant to be, fingers leaving imprints on her neck and chin, wanting to shield her from the natural disaster that were occurring within him, but she sighed and he couldn’t stop kissing her until he physically had to.

His hands shook, that painfully familiar and terrifyingly unwelcome burning under his skin dominating all of the senses that had previously only been  _Miriel_ , and Lon’Qu hated himself quite fiercely in that moment- the sensation as crippling as the guilt he’d harbored all these years and he wanted to strip away his skin, be anything but what he was right now.

But he couldn’t do that to her. The terror, the hesitance, the  _exhilaration_  in her rich brown eyes as he pulled away from her drove a stake into his fleeing soul. She was looking at him- like he was the single most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

He stilled himself. He tried to be strong.

 _For a smart woman,_ he murmured against her lips,  _you sure are dumb._

He thought he could handle this again. He thought he was ready.

But it was too much, all at once, it was too much. He had always likened her visage to that of fire, but she had always been a contained burn, dangerous and restorative all at once, something that could have saved or destroyed his life, and Lon’Qu’d lost control of it. The world burned.

He’d fanned the fires enough for one day.

So, with shaking hands, he let go, pulled back, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey first post of the new year, look at that.


End file.
